Page 56 of Resist

But answering would be giving away too much of myself. It would be letting a man who clearly fits in this world too deep into my life.

“More to drink, sir?” the waiter asks as he steps forward and appears out of what I swear is nowhere, only adding to my discord when he solely addresses Ryker and acts like I don’t exist.

“Yes, please.”

The waiter begins to pour his drink, and the clink of the bottle against the glass has the waiter wincing, and all of a sudden, the churning in my belly again.

“Vaughn?”

The clink of glass against crystal.

“Hmm?” Focus, Vaughn.

Absinthe.

“Are you okay?” Ryker asks.

I shake my head as my mind tries to pull itself from the abyss of memories it has been struggling to come to terms with. “Yes. Yeah. Fine.”

“You sure?”

I look up and meet his eyes and force a smile. “Yes.”

The waiter looks at both of us and reels off the specials for the evening, but I don’t hear a word he’s saying.

Was that my trigger the other night? Was Ryker pouring his drink from the decanter—the distinct clink of glass on glass—what charged my mind to pull up the memory?

The scent of wealth, the clink of crystal, the air of authority.

Were those the things that helped to blindside me?

“Thank you, Bernard,” Ryker says, pulling me from my thoughts.

“So you’re ready to order then?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll have my usual, and the lady will have the filet, medium well, a garden salad, the potatoes, and a glass of the Promontory Cabernet Sauvignon 2010.”

“Thank you, but I’d prefer the white sea bass with the truffle mac and cheese and a glass of your house rosé, please,” I assert, miffed that he thinks he can order for me when he doesn’t even know me and ticked off that Bernard started writing it down as if my voice doesn’t matter.

And a whole lot relieved to have this fight to pick instead of focusing on the ideas owning my thoughts.

Bury it. Shove it all away. Deal with it later.

“That’s a mistake—she’ll have what I said.”

We wage a visual war of wills, and I don’t look away from him when I speak. “No, I’ll have the fish, please.”

Ryker huffs out a sigh, his eyes boring into mine as the poor waiter stands at the edge of our table and looks from Ryker to me and then back again. “You ate a filet the other night.”

“That was over a week ago. A lot of things can make you change your mind in a week’s time.” I smile tightly at him before turning my attention to Bernard, patiently shifting his feet, uncomfortable from overhearing our spat. “The fish, please.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ryker mutters under his breath. “At least choose a wine that’s worth a shit.”

“The house rosé, please, Bernard.”

“Very well.” Bernard nods and then steps back as if to escape any more of our argument.

I turn to face Ryker’s glare. “I’m capable of handling my own order, thank you,” I say.